


Walking in the Shade

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John Watson, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Coma, Episode Fix-It: s04e03 The Final Problem, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, John Watson & Mycroft Holmes friendship, M/M, Major Character Injury, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-10 05:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12905301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: John doesn’t get to the hospital in time.  Sometimes, even with Sherlock’s careful planning, just a few minutes are enough to tip the balance between life and death… or leave it stuck somewhere in the middle.  The secret sister rises, and Mycroft and John have to take on Eurus alone. An alternate Final Problem.





	1. The Best Laid Plans

“Why are you here?” Undisguised interest glimmered in Culverton Smith’s eyes as he regarded the detective. “It’s like you walked into my den and laid down in front of me. Why?”

Sherlock flicked his gaze up for a moment, squinting slightly even in the soft blue light. “You know why I’m here.”

“I’d like to hear you say it.” Smith gave a smile that was more a crocodilian baring of teeth. “Say it for me, please.”

“I want you to kill me.” The words sounded strange even to his own ears. Smith had moved closer without Sherlock realizing: he could keenly smell the other man’s cologne and a heavy overlay of sweat. It was becoming clear, now, “If you increase the dosage four or five times toxic shock should shut me down within about an hour.”

Appreciation of his own plan was plain in Smith’s voice. “Then I restore the settings. Everyone assumes it was a fault, or you just gave up the ghost.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed. He’d known the drugs would be tampered with. So far so according to plan. John should be figuring out right about now as well. He was looking forward to that part. To finally putting all of this behind them and mending, as best as they could, what had been broken.

“You’re rather good at this.” The words startled Sherlock out of his thoughts and he looked up to find Smith taking off his jacket. “Before we start: tell me how you feel.”

How he feels? Sherlock considered the question. How should he feel? How did he feel the last time he almost died? When Mary shot him… “I feel scared.”

A huff of breath, half scoff and half chuckle, was Smith’s reply. “Be more specific. You only get to do this once.”

Considering more carefully, Sherlock clarified, “I’m scared of dying.”

That got a nod of approval. “You wanted this though.” Smith carefully set down his cufflinks in order to roll up his sleeves.

The best lies are always closest to the truth. “I have… reasons.”

“But you don’t actually want to die.”

“No.” That, at least, was the truth.

An expression of relief flitted across Smith’s face. “Good.” He leaned slightly closer to Sherlock, searching the other man’s face as he asked, “Say that for me. Say it.”

Frowning slightly made the split on Sherlock’s lip sting as he said, “I don’t want to die.” The words came out weakly.

“And again.”

More loudly, and with conviction, Sherlock repeated, “I don’t want to die.” And he didn’t: John would be here soon. Very soon.

“Once more for luck.”

To his surprise, Sherlock found his voice catching. “I don’t want to die.” Good Lord, his voice was husky with emotion. Sentiment. An unexpected complication as he repeated, “I don’t… I don’t want to die.”

“Lovely.” The foetid puff of Smith’s breath on his face made real fear coil in Sherlock’s stomach. “Here it comes.” The machine beeped in sequence as the dosage was adjusted. “So tell me: why are we doing this? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to hear your confession. Needed to know I was right.” It had seemed like a good idea several days before. Now, however… His ribs ached terribly from John’s kicks and he couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. There was a dull pain from the vicinity of his kidneys as well; Sherlock hadn’t appreciated just how hurt and run down he really was.

The questions kept coming, relentlessly: “But why do you need to die?”

“The mortuary; your favourite room. You talk to the dead. You make your confession to them.” Smith gave a loud sniff and Sherlock pressed his luck, “Why do you do it?”

“Why do I kill?” Smith considered for a moment, tried to put feelings and desires into words, “It’s-- It’s not about hatred or revenge. I’m not a dark person. It’s… killing human beings… it just makes me,” the emotion welled up then and he couldn’t help but chuckle and sigh, “incredibly happy.”

Ah, being right. Sherlock couldn’t help but allow himself a small smile. Alright, Mary, he thought: I’ve done it. Any second now... 

It seemed as if once Smith started talking he wasn’t able to stop. Almost compulsively, he continued, “You know in films when… when you see dead people pretending to be dead and it’s just living people lying down? That’s not what dead people look like.” And yes, Sherlock did indeed know that well. “Dead people look like things.” Smith’s voice hardened, “I like to make people into things. Then you can own them.” He paused, just for a moment, then continued, “You know what? I’m getting a little impatient.”

As the bed began to lower at the press of a button Sherlock glanced towards the door. The room was well sound-proofed, but there wasn’t even the faintest suggestion of alarm being raised in the corridor.

“Take a big breath if you want.” Sherlock’s gaze snapped back at Smith’s words, just in time for gloved hands to settle over his mouth and nose. Squeezing. Pressing down with surprising strength. 

John?

“Murder is a very difficult addiction to manage. People don’t realise how much work goes into it. You have to be careful.”

_John?_

Sherlock made a grab for Smith’s arm, but missed. Instead settling for flailing and trying to break the hold, to somehow wriggle free.

The grip simply tightened and real fear spread rapidly like a shock of cold water as Smith continued, “But if you’re rich or famous and loved, it’s amazing what people are prepared to ignore. There’s always someone desperate, about to go missing and no-one wants to suspect murder if it’s easier to suspect something else. I just have to ration myself; choose the right heart to stop…”

John wasn’t coming. Sherlock tried to fight harder even as he could feel himself growing weaker.

“Please, maintain eye contact.” Smith’s voice hissed as he leaned down, veins in his forehead bulging with the sustained effort of smothering the other man. “Maintain eye contact. Maintain eye contact. Please. I like to watch it happen.” Pleasure twisted his lips into a smile that was more a feral baring of teeth.

Sherlock kicked out, weakly, but didn’t connect. His vision was a tunnel now, terror throbbing with every beat of his racing heart. The edges of what he could see sparked and greyed until there were only Smith’s eyes. Then just a faint, rasping, “And off... we… pop.”

For a fraction of a second Sherlock thought he could hear the alarm of the heart monitor. Then nothing at all.

************

Mycroft looked up, sharply, as the front door of 221B burst open and John Watson entered the street at a run, pausing only to turn and catch a key fob tossed by his landlady. In the time it took Mycroft to drop his cigarette onto the pavement and grind it under his shoe the doctor was already out of sight around the corner. A car door slammed and an engine roared to life-- Mycroft hurriedly opened the door to his own car and commanded his driver to follow.

As they raced through the streets Mycroft quickly realized they were going back to the hospital. The scene of the crime, so to speak. Had John learned what drove Sherlock to such an act of supreme stupidity? Perhaps, but that alone wasn’t enough to justify the speed. Something else. Something dangerous. Breaking his normal air of composure, Mycroft leaned forward in his seat and urged his driver to go faster.

When John abandoned Mrs. Hudson’s car in front of the hospital, Mycroft simply _knew_. He leapt out of his own vehicle, yelling to his driver to look after John’s as well, and sprinted after the other man. Running up the stairs revealed a deserted hallway, a policeman’s cap abandoned on a chair. Gasping for breath after taking the stairs at a run, Mycroft vowed that someone was about to be reassigned to managing ASBO checks in Bradford.

Swearing, John picked up a fire extinguisher and broke down the door just as the policeman finally appeared from the other direction and followed him into the room. An outraged roar echoed down the hallway and Mycroft started running all over again. John’s voice, “What were you doing to him?”

“Mr. Holmes! You okay?”

And Culverton Smith’s voice joining the cacophony: “He’s in distress! I’m helping him!”

Mycroft burst into the room to find the policeman restraining a dishevelled Smith and in an instant so much was clear. His heart dropped at the urgency with which John was leaning over the head of the bed.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” Gently patting the detective’s cheek John was vacillating between frantic and professional. “Come on, Sherlock. Breathe! Breathe for me, Sherlock!”

_Breathe_? Mycroft felt his knees threaten to buckle and forced himself to detach, immediately. Observe, he told himself, observe and determine what had happened. The handle of a cane over the back on a chair caught his eye and he groaned to himself.

“We need a crash team in here!” John yelled as he abandoned a brief sternal rub in favor of manual CPR. An alarm began to sound over the wailing of Sherlock’s monitors and Mycroft was jolted out of his detached observation.

His brother was dying. Mycroft did the only thing he could: he pulled out his phone and began making calls.

Suddenly there were a lot of people in the room: yelling, jostling John back and out of the way, calling for drugs and paddles and laryngoscope. Suddenly the flurry of motion changed and the team was wheeling Sherlock’s bed towards the door. Mycroft briefly dropped the phone from his ear when John plucked his sleeve, “They’re taking him to ITU, come on…” but, of course, they were only followed so far before their way was barred.

“I’m sorry gentlemen. I can’t let you through.” The security guard was empathetic in some vague professional sense, but unmoveable. 

John scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked prepared to argue, but on sizing the man up it was clear to be a losing battle

Mycroft pulled the doctor back down the corridor and asked, “The cane, John. I presume it was yours?” He didn’t even have to wait for the slightly bewildered reply before leading the way back to his brother’s hospital room with the other man trailing after him, clearly conflicted about any step away from Sherlock. Mycroft went unerringly to the cane, hefting it in his hand and considering its weight and balance. Testing the structure… sure enough, the head twisted right off.

“What?” John frowned, looking at the two pieces. “I’ve never…”

It was just as he’d suspected. Ignoring the other man’s confusion, Mycroft reached in and pulled out the recording components. He held them up between them. “Now. Why don’t you tell me just what you found in my brother’s flat?”

John looked like he was going to be ill, eyes flicking from the electronics to the empty space where Sherlock’s bed had been. The elder Holmes’ gaze was boring into him and he felt sweat begin to prickle his forehead. “The message… the video, I mean. It was from Mary. she knew, somehow, that something could happen. I guess it wasn’t very unlikely given her past life.” He still couldn’t quite believe the contents of the recording. “She gave Sherlock a case. My case, in fact.” 

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, but he let the other man continue uninterrupted.

“If she died, she knew I’d need saving: and that’s what she tasked Sherlock to do. Mary…” he huffed out a breath of disbelief, “she said I wouldn’t accept his help, but I’d never refuse to give it. He was to take on someone, someone very bad, someone powerful, someone who would put him through Hell until he truly needed my help. She believed I’d get here in time.” John felt the prickling spread to his eyes as tears threatened to well up. For Mary or Sherlock he wasn’t sure.

Mycroft looked distinctly uncomfortable at the threatened eruption of emotion. He was spared from having to respond by the arrival of a new set of footfalls.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” D.I. Lestrade strode into the room looking harassed. “John? What message and why have I just arrested a national celebrity?” 

Gulping quickly to get himself under control John laced his fingers together and placed his hands on his head as if trying to catch his breath after a foot race. 

Lestrade looked from one man to the other, “Well?”

It took another hard swallow before John could get out, “He tried to kill Sherlock.”

“What!” Lestrade looked like he’d missed a step, “Are you serious?”

Mycroft held up the recording device, “We likely have a confession right here. It was a rather elaborate scheme on my brother’s part. I doubt he let himself go quietly.”

Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly feeling very old. Just earlier he’d had John in an evidence room, explaining how he’d assaulted his best friend, and how it looked like it had all been orchestrated. “You said there was a message?”

“From Mary,” John shrugged to acknowledge the apparent impossibility of what he’d said, “She told Sherlock to save me.”

“But…”

John sensed the continued confusion and clarified, “She knew I’d be in a bad state if she died. I don’t know when she recorded it, or when it was delivered, but she told him to risk his life so that I’d have a purpose. She trusted that I’d act in time.”

“And didn’t you…” Greg looked between the two, suddenly uncertain, “act in time?”

What little colour was left in John’s face seemed to drain away and Mycroft was left to answer, softly, “We don’t know.”


	2. Hope & Faith

Lestrade stayed for as long as he could, but Culverton Smith was not a man he was going to leave to his underlings, no matter how competent they were. John and Mycroft sat shoulder to shoulder in some sort of waiting room, each lost to their own thoughts. 

Other family members of other patients seemed to appear and disappear while they waited, anxious muttering growing and dying with predictable regularity. John couldn’t bring himself to even glance at the magazines that were suggestively set out on a table; instead, he counted floor tiles, attempted to deduce the latest families with minimal success, fiddled with his mobile, checked his own pulse, and did everything but dwell on Mary’s message.

It was three hours later when a consultant finally entered the room and addressed them, “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” He had the white coat of a doctor, but to the two men looked impossibly young, “I’m sorry we couldn’t provide an update until now, but wanted to have a better understanding of the extent of the hypoxia.”

The vein that throbbed on Mycroft’s forehead when he was only just tolerating someone gave a little jump and he growled, “And?”

“Mr. Holmes was clearly starved of oxygen for several minutes, perhaps longer. He is not currently responsive, however, we were able to administer the drug you arranged and while it was provided with limited documentation, the indication was that we should expect a new level of neuroprotective action both in managing acidosis and repurfusion injury as well as preventing inflammation. Given the probable duration of the insult we are also administering anticonvulsants.”

“Drug?” John looked between the doctor and Mycroft, “What drug?”

Tilting his head towards Mycroft to indicate he meant the elder and not the younger, the doctor replied, “Mr. Holmes arranged something; I’m afraid I’m not too sure about the details.”

John knew better than to ask more in public so focused on a more pressing issue, “Can we see him?”

The young man looked relieved to be off the hook for more questions, instead simply nodded and said, “He’s in bay four. Ask for Nurse Evans to show you the way.”

The ITU was never quiet, even at night. The soft beep of monitors and hiss of forced air was an unfortunately familiar background as the nurse pulled back the curtain separating Sherlock from the other critically ill patients. Mycroft swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to take in his brother: ventilated, waxen, a rash of burst blood vessels and bruising marring the skin around his eyes.

“He broke his nose.” John’s voice was small and tight. “That son of a bitch broke his nose.” And Smith had too, crunching cartilage and bone as he pressed down. It had clearly been expertly set, but the swelling and traces of blood around the nostrils was plain. Doctor’s instincts made cold dread swell like a rising tide-- this was more than a bit not good. All of John’s training about anoxic minutes before cell death was making his heart beat faster. It didn’t look like it would be fine. It looked like he’d been too late.

Mycroft reached out and gently smoothed a hand over his brother’s hair in the most sentimental gesture John had ever seen from the man. Even more than a weak smile and request to “look after him” before disembarking an airplane.

“What…” John had to clear his throat and try again, “What drug was he talking about? Did you do something? Is that why you were on the phone earlier?”

Mycroft nodded, not looking away from his brother, “A little creation from our special friends for when they overdid the swimming lessons.”

Oh. They were still in public, after all. John focused on the meaning: Americans. CIA then, for waterboarding gone wrong, or worse. Jesus, he didn’t want to know what favor Mycroft could owe for this one. “Do we know anything more on the mechanism? Or expected outcomes?”

That vein throbbed in Mycroft’s forehead again, whether at John or the strings attached to the drugs was unclear. “Unfortunately, no.” Tilting his head to one side as if confronted with a particularly perplexing problem, he continued, “But I have been assured that hope, at least, should be allowed to persist. No matter how it looks at the moment.”

Hope. Hope and Faith… if it wasn’t for Smith’s bloody daughter they might not be in this mess. John buried his face in his hands, wishing he could simply take back the last forty-eight hours. The past weeks, while he was at it. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, what had happened, not really, but he’d just been so angry. Now he wasn’t sure he’d get a chance to make it right. Just once, John thought, just once he’d like his life to _not_ fall apart for more than a year at a time. 

Three days later and John was working hard to stay hopeful. The only change in Sherlock was that he’d been moved to a private room: the ventilator and constant monitoring remained in place, and there was no sign of consciousness reemerging. It was different from the last vigil in the hospital. Mycroft would stop by for a half hour first thing in the morning and late in the evening, presumably en route between his home and an office somewhere. Instead of previous stays beside Sherlock’s bed, the rhythms of Rosie meant that John had to come and go as well. He’d brought her by one afternoon and she’d squealed and reached towards her godfather in a way that brought unexpected tears to John’s eyes. Sherlock hadn’t seen her since before Mary died, and it was all so damned unfair.

And yet here he was, powerless, only able to wait and hope. John turned on the radio and some folk singer came on, a woman singing haunting near-nonsense that he quickly tuned out. What a bloody mess.

************

“Redbeard!’ It was his own voice, but thin and high pitched. “Come on, Redbeard!” 

Water sluiced over smooth grey stones and in the background a teenager he somehow knew was Mycroft stood with his back turned, radiating loneliness. The world tilted, drunkenly, and Sherlock didn’t understand what was happening. There was a sickening sensation of falling backwards and then… grass? Long grass and something supportive against his back. He blinked and a book swam into focus atop red corduroy trousers and crossed green wellingtons. 

“Yellowbeard!” Another voice, familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Not Mycroft. Who was Yellowbeard?

The sensation of falling again and then just… nothing. Nothing to see, but a sensation of pain that slowly grew. Aching and throbbing. He tried to speak, but there was no sound. Tried to move, but was paralyzed. Panic started to spark, but even before it could fully take hold the darkness spread from his vision to consciousness itself.


	3. The East Wind Rises

He’d vomited on the rug. Against the calfskin that he’d first mistaken for his own blood it looked particularly vile. John found himself shaking like a new foal as he became more aware of his surroundings, panic rising as he did so. He’d been shot, hadn’t he? His head was swimming unpleasantly, but why didn’t it hurt?

It took a moment for the truth to dawn: he’d been shot, yes, but clearly with a powerful tranquilizer. Eurus. The east wind. Looking around quickly revealed the house was quiet; the sun had lowered significantly in the sky. Rosie. It was late: he had to pick her up. Jesus. His therapist was the woman from the bus, the woman he’d been texting, and also the phony Faith _and_ knew Moriarty. He needed Sherlock more than ever, but there still hadn’t been any change in the detective’s condition. Every day that passed without signs of consciousness darkened the shadows under John’s eyes and made Mycroft’s lips thin and tense. Every day that shred of hope that John was trying to cling to frayed just a little bit more.

Right, what to do? From the sound of it there was a body concealed somewhere in the house. Step one, he told himself, get out before the lunatic came back. John groaned as he levered himself to his feet, head swimming anew at the change in elevation. Once safely outside he made his way quickly to the tube station, only properly breathing again when he joined the bustle of commuters. 

She’d claimed to be Sherlock’s secret sister. Mycroft’s off hand remark about “the last time” suddenly had new meaning. Did Sherlock know? Could this just be one more lie? He didn’t want to believe that could be the case, but had no way of asking. The press of the crowd carried him onto a carriage and he took hold of a pole without really noticing it. He was going to have to ask Mycroft, but the other man wasn’t likely to tell the truth. Not unless he was actually scared: for himself or his brother. And even then, perhaps lying simply came too naturally. How he could get Mycroft scared to the point of wetting himself he had no idea.

************

Four hours later and John didn’t have any good ideas. He’d put Rosie into her pyjamas and carried her over to a neighbour who looked after her from time to time, then returned to the hospital. The neighbour’s husband had worked homicide before he retired and knew Lestrade-- she’d be safer there than with him. The chart on the foot of Sherlock’s bed didn’t have any good news: just a history of rotating to prevent bedsores, drugs administered, physiotherapists trying to maintain mobility, and hour after hour no record of the coma lightening.

“Hi, Sherlock. It’s… it’s John.” The bedside chair scraped loudly across the floor and John settled into it with a groan. He’d taken his own vitals at home earlier and they had been normal enough. The nausea and foggy headedness settled into something more like a mild hangover in the hours since he’d been drugged. “While you’ve been getting your beauty sleep I had quite a day. I met your secret sister. Did you know about her?” Tension made him flippant, as it tended to. Not helping was the strangeness in speaking aloud to Sherlock while knowing there couldn’t be any reply. “I think Mycroft has been lying to us both, but I don’t know how to get him to tell the truth. I’m sure you’d have some clever plan, but all I’ve been able to think of doing is just asking him.”

John placed his elbows on the edge of the bed and used his hands to prop up his chin as he thought. The radio in the background switched from a news broadcast to music; the folksongish tune from the day before. Must be popular right now, he mused, only then realizing just how out of touch he was with current events. How could Sherlock have a sister he didn’t know about? That no one mentioned at Christmas? The sickening thought that Sherlock had been lying to him for all those years twisted again in his belly. Please wake up, he thought, please wake up and tell me what is happening.

They’d removed the stitch from Sherlock’s eyebrow, where John had split it open. His knuckles still gave a phantom twinge of pain at the memory and he forced himself to examine his friend more closely. Sherlock’s nose looked set to heal without a sign of having been broken-- Mycroft must have ordered in a specialist plastics team. The bruising on his face had changed to greens and yellows, and according to the chart his kidney function was starting to return to normal. 

The radio returned to a news broadcast and John closed his eyes. Rosie was safe, he told himself. He lowered one hand and gently set it over Sherlock’s lax one, wishing he could feel just a twitch of intentional motion. Anything to show that recovery was still possible. Eventually, familiar footfalls sounded outside the door and John quickly sat back in the chair before the door opened.

“Good evening, John.” Mycroft’s suit was as unruffled as ever, but signs of exhaustion were starting to appear on his face. “Still the same?” He didn’t even wait for a reply; John supposed it must have been plain to deduce already. “And how was your day?” Simply asking the question showed how distracted Mycroft was by the whole situation.

“Not the best, Mycroft.” John’s clipped tone made the other man look up from his brother and raise an eyebrow. “Your sister shot me.”

Mycroft’s jaw went noticeably lax in surprise and John would have enjoyed the reaction if it wasn’t such a serious problem. The purported minor governmental official had to grab a bedrail to hold himself up as he did a plausible impression of a landed fish.

As Mycroft’s eyes started to fly over John from head to toe he conceded, “Alright: it was with a tranquilizer, but it looked pretty damn real right up until then.” A sigh of relief from the other mean revealed an opportunity to press his advantage. “I can’t help noticing, Mycroft, that your alarm didn’t seem to stem from the existence of someone claiming to be your sister, rather that she was in a position to shoot me.”

“No, I suppose it didn’t.” It was remarkable, really, to see how quickly Mycroft could get himself back under control. He quickly released the railing and straightened, face shifting to a bland expression, “Rather a lapse…”

Sensing the impending denial, John didn’t even let it begin, “I think it’s time you told me the truth.”

“Ah,” Mycroft shifted his gaze to the ceiling, “who was it that said, truth is rarely pure, and never simple?”

“Oscar Wilde: The Importance of Being Earnest. Now stop trying to distract me and tell the truth.” Mycroft couldn’t help an appreciative smirk at having, in that moment at least, met his match. John continued to press his advantage, “Sherlock once told me that you used to bully him with a nightmarish story: the east wind was coming… coming to get him. Now a woman appears and her name is Eurus: literally the god of the east wind.”

From the way Mycroft drew breath and started to shake his head, it was clear a denial was about to be forthcoming. In the background the radio changed from the news back to music, _I that am lost, oh who, will find me? Deep down below the old beech tree…_ and Mycroft seemed to shudder to a halt as if some higher power had paused him in place.

John watched in fascination as all the blood seemed to drain out of the other man’s face, leaving normally faint freckles to stand out starkly. The song, he realized, had to be what triggered the reaction, but why? It was just the same one as before. _Help, succour me now, the east winds blow. Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go._ The east wind? What was this? _Be not afraid to walk in the shade. Save one, save all, come try…_

“Mycroft?” John leaned across the bed and grabbed the other man by the arm, giving him a little shake, “Mycroft!”

It seemed to be enough to startle Mycroft back into the room, although he was clearly listening carefully as the morbid song continued to unfold. “John.” The name came out as a croak and he had to try twice to clear his throat, “Call Lestrade and tell him we need a guard on this room. Someone trusted, but not someone I, or anyone from my office, would know.” It was an odd request, but John hurried to comply. “In the meantime, he’s to open a new safehouse with medical care using the numbered account from the Lilas investigation-- it’s still open and will have sufficient funds. He’s to move Sherlock there as quickly as possible. We’ll be in touch with further instructions later.”

The song repeated again and then the news came back on. Mycroft reached out and unplugged the radio, prising the back off and looking inside to reveal a small transmitter wired into the system. He ripped it out right then and looked up, grimly, “We have to go.”

“What?” They couldn’t leave Sherlock at a time like this.

Mycroft seemed to be feeling the same conflict as well, as he reached down and gently smoothed a hand over his brother’s shoulder before repeating, “We have to go. Sherlock will be safe under guard; if anything we’re making him more of a target. Come on!”

Against his instincts, John followed Mycroft down an emergency staircase and out a loading bay to where a car was idling, clambering into the back seat. When the car pulled out into traffic that Mycroft seemed to minutely relax, but it was only when they parked in a disused alley several miles away that he seemed ready to talk.

“My apologies, John.” The words seemed to stick in his throat. “I don’t know how this can be happening, but you are correct that I do indeed know more about the circumstances than my brother.”

After a long pause, John prompted, “So there were three of you: what was the age difference?”

“Seven years between myself and Sherlock; one year between Sherlock and Eurus.”

Even in the dire situation, John couldn’t help but smile, fondly, “Middle child. Explains a lot.” Mycroft gave an appreciative snort as well. “Did she have it too? The deduction thing?”

It was clumsily phrased, but Mycroft, seemingly lost in a memory, merely whispered, “More than you can know.”

“Enlighten me.”

Finally twisting in the seat to properly look at the other man, Mycroft indicated himself, “You realise I’m the smart one?”

“I’ve heard that opinion before.”

Ignoring the slight jibe, Mycroft continued to explain, “But Eurus, she was incandescent even then. Our abilities were professionally assessed more than once. I was... remarkable, but Eurus… she was described as an era-defining genius, beyond Newton.”

“So what happened?”

“We didn’t grow up in the house you saw at Christmas. Musgrave was our ancestral home, where there was always honey for tea and Sherlock played pirates by the river and amongst the funny gravestones.” 

“Funny how?”

“They weren’t real. The dates were all wrong. An architectural joke that fascinated Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed at something from his memory and continued, “She knew things she should never have known: as if she was somehow aware of truths beyond the normal scope. The memories are disturbing. They found her with a knife once. She seemed to be cutting herself. Mother and Father were terrified. They thought it was a suicide attempt. But when I asked Eurus what she was doing, she said she wanted to see how her muscles worked.”

“Jesus!”

“So I asked her if she felt pain, and she said, which one’s pain?”

It took a moment to digest that, during which a sense of foreboding only grew until John had to ask, “What happened?”

“Redbeard.” Mycroft looked to the ceiling for a moment, as if gathering strength, then back to John. “Eurus took Redbeard and locked him up where no one could find him. We begged and begged her to tell us where he was, but she refused to say. She’d only repeat that song; her little ritual. She said it was the answer, but the song made no sense.”

“What happened to Redbeard? Sherlock mentioned him, just once, when we saw an Irish Setter in Regent’s Park, but didn’t say what had happened.”

“We never found him. But she started calling him ‘Drowned Redbeard,’ so we made our assumptions. Sherlock was traumatised. Natural, I suppose.” Mycroft himself looked distinctly unsettled at the memory, “He was, in the early days, an emotional child; but after that he was different, so changed. Never spoke of it again. In time, he seemed to forget that Eurus had ever even existed.”

It didn’t make sense. “How could he forget? She was living in the same house.”

Mycroft shook his head with a distinct air of sadness, “No. They took her away.”

“Why? You don’t lock up a child because a dog goes missing.”

“Quite so.” Mycroft licked his lips as if tasting something unpalatable. “It was what happened immediately afterwards. Her drawings grew morbid and disturbing: Sherlock with a noose around his neck, Sherlock with blood pouring out of his throat. She’d loved him up till then, even taught him to play the violin, but now we were concerned he wasn’t safe either. Before our parents could act, she forced our hand.”

“How?”

“She set a fire. The entire house was gutted.” Mycroft ran his hands over his knees, smoothing invisible wrinkles out of his trousers. “She was taken to some suitable place, however, it wasn’t suitable enough: she died there.”

“How did she die?”

“She started another fire, one which she did not survive.”

Somehow, John just knew, “That’s a lie.”

Mycroft quirked a wry smile of concession, “So it is, but it’s also a kindness. This is the story I told our parents to spare them further pain, and to account for the absence of an identifiable body. The depth of Eurus’ psychosis and the extent of her abilities couldn’t hope to be contained in any ordinary institution. Our Uncle Rudy took care of things.”

Jesus. It was beyond anything John could ever have imagined. “Where did you put her?”

“There’s a place called Sherrinford; an island. It’s a secure and very secretive installation whose sole purpose is to contain what we call ‘the uncontainables.’ The demons beneath the road – this is where we trap them.” He took a deep breath and explained the rest without pausing, “Sherrinford is more than a prison or an asylum; it is a fortress built to keep the rest of the world safe from what is inside it. Heaven may be a fantasy for the credulous and the afraid, but I can give you a map reference for Hell. That’s where our sister has been since early childhood. She hasn’t left – not for a single day. Whoever you both met, it can’t have been her.”

“And Sherlock never knew? Never remembered?”

Mycroft shook his head, wearily, “I never bullied, Sherlock, much as he would like to believe otherwise. I used, at discrete intervals, potential trigger words to update myself as to his mental condition.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, then asserted, “I was trying to look after him.”

The silence stretched between them for a long moment, both digesting what had been said. Eventually, John said, “So what now? How can we be sure Eurus never left?” 

“We’ll go to my office. It’s safe enough there and I can check-in with Sherrinford directly.” Mycroft rapped on the dark glass separating them from the front of the vehicle. When the engine didn’t roar to life, he rapped again more sharply. There was a whirring sound as the glass slowly retracted to reveal the driver’s seat was empty.

“What the hell…” Mycroft started to lean forward, then froze, “Don’t move! Keep as still as you can.”

John saw it then: a smallish, silver-grey object on the dash. “What is it?”

Without moving his head, Mycroft replied, “It’s a DX-707. I’ve authorized the purchase of quite a number of these.” The top of the object opened and a small section popped up, a reddish light shining in their eyes. “It’s armed. Colloquially it is known as the ‘patience grenade’.”

“Patience?”

“The motion sensor has activated. If either of us move, the grenade will detonate.”

“What’s the trigger response time?”

“We’d have a maximum of three seconds to vacate the blast radius.”

John sagged slightly at the thought, trying to keep still as he did so. 

Glancing around as best as he could, Mycroft noted several potential avenues for shelter outside the car. “The alley will channel the blast. There’s a set of stairs on your side that should block debris if you can get to it. I’ll make for that doorway.”

It looked like a long shot, but there wasn’t much to say between them. Not at that moment. “Alright. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Three, two, one…” They each grabbed a door handle in unison, twisting to clear the car and dashing for shelter. John had barely tucked his shoulder behind the cement staircase when there was a deafening blast and a concussive force that knocked him backwards, head striking the pavement hard. He didn’t have time to wonder if Mycroft had made it, or even if he was dead or not, before he blacked out.


	4. Mycroft Holmes: Pirate

So far as schemes went this one was even more far fetched than his brother’s typical endeavours. The helicopter vanished into the low clouds and Mycroft clutched a brace attached to the small mast of the fishing boat, holding tightly as it rolled in the waves.

Sure enough, it was only a few seconds before a door opened with a crash and two men in raincoats appeared on the deck. The captain looked up in bemusement, yelling over the roar of the sea, “Who the hell are you?”

Back erect, nonchalant even as the boat lurched sickeningly, the answer came loud and clear, “My name is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Who?”

John stepped into view behind, pointing a gun at the fisherman as he clarified, “The pirate.”

Landing on the beach went according to plan: Mycroft disguised as Sherlock in disguise, John as himself to support the subterfuge. It wasn’t the best of plans, but Mycroft was confident it would, at least, get them inside and give them an element of surprise when the reveal took place.

Sure enough, the governor’s reaction to have someone check the cell indicated that he at least expected Eurus to be there. And the look on his face when Mycroft removed his false nose would, under any other circumstances, have been very gratifying indeed. As it was, they only allowed themselves a small smile before getting back to business in the governor’s office upstairs.

As the two men argued back and forth, John let his attention focus on the video. Eurus was almost hypnotic, even in the old recording; her mannerisms odd, yet captivating. Her words, too, were disturbing. In the background a male voice could only just be made out, clearly becoming increasingly drawn into the conversation with Eurus. 

Mycroft said something and when the governor replied defensively something about the cadence of his voice made a shiver of realization prickle John’s neck. If he was right, this was worse than they had imagined. Far worse. He wished he could catch Mycroft’s attention, but the man was clearly preoccupied by expressing his disappointment in the governor. After another failed attempt, it was clear the direct approach might be the only option left: “One question.” John turned away from the screen to face the governor, “That’s your voice, isn’t it?” The governor’s gaze flitted between the screen, John, and back to Mycroft. “If Eurus has enslaved you, then who exactly is in charge of this prison?”

The governor’s face seemed to crumple then, and he raised a hand clutching a remote as he choked out, “I’m sorry.”

John’s internal monologue was a string of panicked expletives, but he managed to raise a forestalling hand and say, “No…”

“Very, very, sorry.”

“No!”

The alarm was deafening and the reaction swift: Mycroft and John were held at gunpoint before they could make a move. As they were marched into the corridor outside, John took desperate action. Kicking one man and headbutting another broke their grip and he ran for the stairs. If he could get a message out, any message, there might be some hope for them. A voice boomed over the speakers, but it was drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears as he ran. It was only when it resolved into a familiar message that it caught his attention: “Did you miss me? Did you miss me?” It wasn’t possible. Yet right there in front of him a screen switched from a waterfall of static to the sneering face of Jim Moriarty, “Miss me? Miss me? Miss me? Miss me…”

How was this possible? John didn’t have a chance to ponder his own question before there was a shock of pain to the back of his head and he was rendered senseless.

************

“Redbeard!” Sherlock awoke with a start and found himself face down in long grass. It smelled like… summertime, his brain supplied, and what kind of a deduction was that? Grasshoppers. He could hear them as a soft cacophony. Orthoptera, what species? That would tell him more about where he was. What species? Grasshoppers, his brain supplied. He growled in frustration and with some effort rolled onto his back. It was twilight and a few early stars were already out. Constellations, yes, he could do this. Once they came out he’d have a good guess at his latitude.

In the distance he could hear someone singing, but his limbs were leaden and wouldn’t obey. Had he been drugged? He didn’t recognize the song, couldn’t say the name, yet there was something familiar about it. _Save pity for strangers, show love the door. My soul seek the shade of my willow’s bloom. Inside, brother mine, let death make a room._

Brother mine.

_Brother mine_.

Where was Mycroft? The stars were coming out more rapidly now-- presumably he’d been gone a long time. 

And John? Had they been on a case? Was John here too, somewhere, equally unable to stand?

He forced himself to focus on the stars: where am I? Home. What? How could this be his home? It didn’t make sense. Suddenly the skies darkened as if clouds had blown over to obstruct the moon and stars entirely and the Earth’s rotation had sped up such that it was more like midnight. Sherlock closed his eyes. Slept.

************

John awoke with a jerk, face pressed to cool concrete. There was the sound of a violin and for the faintest fraction of a second he was confused: as if hearing Sherlock playing yet not being at Baker Street. Then he recognized the tune. It was Eurus’ song: lilting, beautiful, and terrifying.

He scrambled to his feet with a gasp and there she was: in her cell, eyes closed while she played. The family resemblance was so much more plain than when he’d seen her before in disguise. Long hair, with a hint of Sherlock’s curls and colour somewhere between her brothers. She could play well. Beautifully, even. 

All at once Eurus lowered the violin and without preamble asked, “Have you slept with my brother?” She didn’t wait for him to get over his surprise enough to reply, answering the question herself instead, “Mmmm, I guess not. You’d have got there in time if you had. Did you want to sleep with me?”

And, Christ, he had too. In a way. 

“I’ve had sex.”

John just about swallowed his tongue at that, but in his surprise choked out, “Um… how?”

Violin and bow still at her side, Eurus only tilted her head slightly as she answered, “One of the nurses got careless. I liked it. Messy, though. People are so breakable.”

Jesus. He’d known she was insane, but this… “I, ah, take it he didn’t consent?”

Eurus wrinkled her nose, “He?”

“She?”

“Afraid I didn’t notice in the heat of the moment and afterwards…” Eurus walked over to the table-like structure built into the floor and set down the instrument before continuing, “...well, you couldn’t really tell.” She came back to stand several feet behind the glass. “Oh dear, has your intermittent tremor come back or have I excited you?”

How the hell did she know about that? John willed himself to still and demanded, “Let us go, Eurus. Now that we know you’re here, Sherlock...”

“Sherlock is currently unresponsive and his doctors are predicting that will be a permanent condition.” She nodded for emphasis as she added, “He always did trust his friends.”

“I’m done…” John backed up, holding a hand in front of himself as if warding her off. “I’m done, Eurus. No more games.”

“You don’t know the truth, yet. You don’t know about Redbeard.”

“I know you drowned him.”

“Oh, John, we’re going to have so much fun.” She took a step closer to the glass, “All you have to do is play with me. Don’t you want to know how I got out?” Despite himself, John stopped walking backwards.

“Touch the glass and I’ll tell you the truth. I’ll tell you the truth about _everything_.”

Everything? John couldn’t help but wonder...

“Be naughty: step closer. I’ll tell you about Mycroft, Sherlock, and me. Mycroft was quite clever. He could understand things if you went a bit slow, but Sherlock… he was my favourite.”

John took one careful step back towards the glass.

“I could make him laugh. I _loved_ it when he laughed. Once I made him laugh all night. I thought he was going to burst.”

Another step towards the glass, from each of them.

Eurus never broke eye contact as she continued, smiling slightly at the memory, “I was so happy. Then Mummy and Daddy had to stop me, of course.”

“Why?”

“Well, turns out I got it wrong…” Eurus twisted her face into an attempt at bemusement, “Apparently, he was screaming.” She took one further step towards the barrier and raised a hand. “Touch the glass. I’ll touch it too, if you like.”

He wavered, still one step further back than she was. Somehow he knew doing anything she said was likely to be a spectacularly terrible idea. And yet...

“You think it’s a trick. You look so… unsure.” Eurus gave a little nod. “Touch the glass, John Watson. Touch the glass for Sherlock Holmes.” His feet seemed to move by themself, carrying him one critical step closer as he raised his hand. When John should have touched glass his hand kept going and suddenly their fingers were intertwining as Eurus whispered, “It’s just a magic trick.”

The signs, John realized, even as his stomach plummeted at her words. She’d suspended the signs and done something with the speaker system to throw her voice.

Eurus gently parted their fingers and gave him a final smile that didn’t reach her eyes, before bringing both arms up hard and fast to hit John soundly about the head, striking him in such a way that he found himself falling.

As he fell, Eurus gave a feral scream and lept forwards, landing on top of him with a forearm firmly across his windpipe, pressing down as she continued to shriek. 

John had never been more relieved to hear booted footfalls about his ears as several guards stormed into the room, prying Eurus up and lifting him out from under her. Any hope this was a rescue was dashed when they proceeded to roughly drag him out and through a corridor. His head was still spinning during what seemed to be a ride in an elevator so he struggled to track their path through the facility. Finally, the sickening journey was over when a door briefly opened and John found himself tossed into a similar cell.

John looked up from the floor to find both the governor and Mycroft looking back at him in shock. More than a bit not good.


	5. The Game is On

Mycroft leaned against the bare cement wall, top button of his shirt undone above a loosened tie, looking down in surprise at the man on the floor. For him, the lapse in demeanor was tantamount to admitting he was feeling completely wrongfooted.

John groaned and got to his feet, gently palpating his own throat for swelling. “Charming sister you’ve got there, Mycroft.”

Mycroft levered himself forward and took a step away from the wall, arms still crossed as he shrugged, “Family’s always difficult.” 

From the far side of the cell the governor looked between the two men in disbelief, “Is this a time for banter?”

Knuckles itching at the man’s voice, John raised an eyebrow and asked Mycroft, “What’s _he_ doing here?”

“As he is told.” Mycroft uncrossed his arms and looked uncharacteristically despondent as he admitted, “Eurus is in control.”

As if Mycroft’s comment had served as a summoning, the lights turned red and a familiar voice boomed over the speakers, “Hello. My name’s Jim Moriarty. Welcome… to the final problem!”

John felt himself start to shake. It wasn’t possible. _It wasn’t_. Sherlock had been so sure..

Noticing the reaction, Mycroft held up a hand. “He’s dead.”

“He doesn’t sound dead.”

Moriarty’s lilting voice continued, “This is a recorded announcement.”

Irritation was plain in Mycroft’s voice as he scowled at the speaker and yelled back, “What is this? Is this supposed to be a game?”

“Oh dear.” The three men turned as one to find Eurus smiling from a large screen placed outside of the cell, clearly in the governor’s office. “Well look at you.”

Mycroft took three quick steps towards the glass, glaring at his sister as he demanded, “How have you done this? How is any of this possible?”

Her smile evaporated, “You put me in here, Mycroft. You brought me my treats.”

That got John’s attention immediately, and he walked closer to Mycroft, pitching his voice in an undertone as he asked, “What treats?”

Mycroft didn’t acknowledge the question, but the vein in his forehead gave a little throb.

Eurus couldn’t have missed the interaction, but chose to ignore it as well. “Now, Mycroft, I’ll even let you make the first move. There’s a gun in the hatch: you can give it either to Dr. Watson or the governor.”

Lip curling back in distaste, Mycroft tilted his head to one side and asked, “What?”

“The gun, brother, I’m sure you’re well acquainted with them. Pick it up, and give it to Dr. Watson or the governor. It’s your choice.”

Mycroft crossed the room and, sure enough, there was a handgun in the hatch. He hefted its weight in his hand, considering: John or the governor. Deciding that whoever held the gun was least likely to be shot, he silently passed it to the doctor. Turning back to the screen, he held out his hands in exasperation, “There. Now what?”

Eurus swung her chair to the side to reveal, behind her on the balcony, a woman.

“That’s my wife.” There was a scrape and a rustle as the governor scrambled to his feet, repeating more loudly as he joined the other men in front of the glass, “That’s my wife!”

Eurus spun her chair back, but shifted slightly to the side so that she wasn’t fully obscuring the restrained woman as she said, “I’m going to shoot the governor’s governor’s wife.”

“No…” The governor looked about to cry as he glanced from the screen to Mycroft, “No, please, help her!”

Eurus held up a hand to reveal a gun of her own. “In about a minute. Bang! Dead.”

“Don’t do that, Eurus.” Mycroft twisted to look directly towards where he knew there was a camera.

Eurus leaned closer to her own camera, looming on the screen in front of them. “Oh, Mycroft, you still don’t understand: you don’t get to tell me to do anything. You can stop me, though. Dr. Watson: shoot either Mycroft or the governor.”

Mycroft closed his eyes as a stricken expression flitted across his features before being quickly suppressed. 

The governor gave a little gasp, “Oh, God…” He swallowed, hard, then looked to John, “You have to do this.”

“No…” John shook his head, backing up even as he gripped the gun more tightly.

“Eurus will kill her!’

John retorted, “It’s murder!”

“This is not murder.” Emotion nearly choked him, but he managed to force out, “This is saving my wife!”

Mycroft looked between the two men, calculating what was likely to happen next depending on who was killed.

After another quick glance to his wife then back to John, the governor asked, “Doctor Watson, are you married?”

A muscle twitched in John’s jaw. “I was.”

“What happened?”

John had to work to keep his voice even. Still unaccustomed to saying the truth out loud, he softly said, “She died.”

“What would you give to get her back? I mean, if you could, if it was possible?”

Mycroft looked at the governor, an expression of horror growing on his face at the argument that was unfolding.

“What would you do to save her? Eurus will kill me. One way, or another. Please save my wife.” The governor licked his lips and continued, “Shoot me.”

Flexing the fingers of his free hand, John asked, “What’s your name?”

“David.”

“And you’re sure about this, David?”

Mycroft felt an urge to stop it. To offer himself up instead; it was his sister after all, but he had no illusions about what it would take to stop Eurus. It wasn’t something John Watson was going to be able to do alone.

The governor was trembling, but resolute, “‘Course I’m bloody sure.”

Eurus leaned even closer to the screen; her eyes almost black as she whispered in appreciation, “Nearly there…”

John cleared his throat and shuffled his feet into a firmer stance. “Right. D’you want to… pray, or anything?”

The governor shook his head, weakly, “With Eurus Holmes in the world, who the hell would I pray to?”

Raising, then lowering, the gun, John said, “You are a good man, and you are doing a good thing.”

Softly, the governor replied, “So are you.” He straightened and closed his eyes, pulling in and holding a deep breath.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life telling myself that, David.” Raising the gun again, John seemed to be talking himself into pulling the trigger. Mycroft forced himself to watch, not turning away.

After a long moment the governor slowly released his breath as a tear rolled out from under his closed eyelid, “Just do it.”

As the gun started to tremble in John’s hand, Eurus seemed to be drinking in the scene on the monitor, eyes flitting from side to side as she said, “This is very good, Doctor Watson. This is very, _very_ good. I should have fitted you with a cardiograph.”

The governor was crying now, more tears following the first down his cheeks.

John’s finger began to tighten on the trigger, even as he whispered, “I can’t.” His voice cracked, slightly, as he said, “I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”

Mycroft decided it was time to intervene and held up a reassuring hand, “I know.” He took a careful step towards his brother’s friend, “It’s all right.”

The governor turned, then, and grabbed the gun before John could react. He took two steps backwards, still crying as he raised the gun under his own chin and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Stop!” Afraid to move closer, John held up his hands imploringly and repeated, “Stop!”

“I’m so sorry.” The governor pressed the muzzle more tightly under his chin and through a heavy sob managed to say, “Remember me.”

“No!” John and Mycroft moved together, but with a loud shot a spray of blood and brain matter spattered onto the glass in front of them. The gun clattered loudly to the floor as the governor’s body followed with a dull thud, rivulets of red spreading across the grey cement.

John sighed, heavily; Mycroft gave a cough that seemed to be choking back a more visceral reaction.

Eurus made herself known as she sighed as well, “Interesting.”

Mycroft ran a hand over his thinning hair, then gestured to the camera, “All right, there you go. You got what you wanted… and he’s dead.”

Eurus smiled. “Dead or alive, he wasn’t very interesting, but you two… you _are_ wonderful. Dr. Watson’s moral code; Mycroft’s calculations. Simply marvellous. And now, because you didn’t want blood on our hands, Dr. Watson, two people are dead instead of one.”

“Two people?

“Yes. Sorry,” She turned the chair to face the balcony, calling back over her shoulder as she did so, “hang on.” The gunshot was loud over the speakers and in the background the governor’s wife slumped; shot neatly in the head.

John took a reflexive step backwards, scrubbing a hand through his hair as Mycroft gave a little groan.

“Tell me,” Eurus spun her chair back to face the screen, “what advantage did your moral code grant you?” She waited for a moment, but John was either unwilling or unable to answer. “Is it not, in the end, selfish to keep one’s hands clean at the expense of another’s life?”

That got a reaction: John took a furious step closer to the glass, roaring in reply, “You didn’t have to kill her!”

Chuckling, Eurus leaned forward so that her eyes dominated the screen. “The condition of her survival was that you had to kill Mycroft or her husband. This is an experiment: there will be rigour.” She sat back, a faint smile of satisfaction still twisting her face as she said, “Mycroft, pick up the gun. It’s your turn next.”

Affecting nonchalance, Mycroft waved a hand. “What if I don’t want the gun?”

“Oh, the gun is intended as a mercy.”

“For whom?”

Eurus’ eyes narrowed, “If someone else had to die, would you really want to do it with your bare hands? It would waste valuable time.”

John glanced away from the screen towards Mycroft, wide-eyed at the implication as he said, “Probably just take it.”

Mycroft sucked a breath through his teeth and bent down, gingerly picking up the gun and grimacing as blood on the grip touched his hand. As he stood, a panel in the wall slid open to reveal a narrow passageway. 

“Please, go through.” Eurus gave a little nod. “And don’t forget the gun.”

Mycroft glanced sideways at John, then led the way out of the cell.

Bidding a silent goodbye to the governor, John slowly followed.


	6. The Only Winning Move

The passageway was narrow, and longer than John had expected. Noting an absence of obvious cameras, he hurried to catch up with Mycroft and murmured, “We’re not going to win if we play by the rules.” The other man didn’t turn, or even slow, but something about the set of his shoulders made it clear he was listening. “Eurus is expecting us to do the smart thing, right? So what if we do something spectacularly dumb?”

The sneer on Mycroft’s face was plain even without him turning to look. “Would you like to lie down in front of her? I think we’ve done a spectacularly good job of that already.”

They rounded a sharp corner and found the passageway opening into another room. Not a cell, but a proper room: large windows showing the sea and a long glass table.

John glanced at the large windows and back to Mycroft, then moved so close his breath tickled the hair at the nape of the other man’s neck as he whispered, “How’s your breaststroke?” Mycroft shuddered, whether in surprise at the idea or the sudden closeness. John expected Mycroft to scoff at him, but instead a contemplative air came over the other man, head tilted slightly to one side as he seemed to give the idea serious consideration.

Checking the clip in the gun revealed six bullets. The glass was tempered to withstand storm-force winds-- it would likely take several shots and the table for them to have a chance of breaking it. Once through, if they survived the drop into the cold water they had perhaps three to five minutes to swim to a beach and get out of the sea. In short, it was one of the worst plans he’d ever entertained. And yet, perhaps as John had a point… He cast himself into the plans of the facility as he could picture them in his head. The auxiliary control room-- top secret-- and the route to it from the outside. He’d never told the governor about it, preferring for London to have their own little advantage, perhaps Eurus had never ferreted it out. If he was right about which room they were in at the moment, and the shape of the beach given the tide, they had a chance.

Mycroft spun quickly, grabbing John by the shoulders and holding him close like a lover, lips brushing the shorter man’s ear. “Listen to me: when you hit the water you will have a strong reflex to gasp, you have to be ready and keep yourself from choking underwater-- hold your mouth shut as you fall if you have to. We’ll have just a few minutes to get to shore. There should be a small beach just to the right, make for it as soon as you surface.”

“Oh, Mycroft,” Eurus’ voice boomed through the speakers, “Does Sherlock have reason to be jealous? I don’t think he’s very good at sharing his toys.”

Ignoring her, Mycroft quickly shrugged off his suit jacket, discarding it on the floor with a twinge of remorse. He’d been fond of that particular one, and if he was going to drown would prefer to leave a respectable corpse.

When he fired the first shot at the glass the tone of Eurus’ voice shifted, “What are you doing? Mycroft!”

He ignored her and shot again, picking the location on the glass with care. 

“Stop! Stop it at once, Mycroft!”

The third shot hit the centre window and luck was on their side when it was enough to fully fracture the glass along the rough triangle he’d targeted. With a crash and a clatter the middle panel fell out entirely, and he sensed John spring into action beside him. A gust of cold wind hit them full in the face, testing their resolve as they ran towards the opening. Eurus’ shrieks to stop echoed in their ears, even as they each took a deep breath and leapt. 

************

Dark. Dark and _pain_. Sherlock rolled onto his back. Or, he was vaguely sure he rolled onto his back. Was he blindfolded? A prickle of fear blossomed at the nape of his neck. Was he blind? 

Sherlock tried to focus on his other senses and his brain only sluggishly responded. He was covered: cloth? He couldn’t tell. The air had no discernible temperature; no discernible odor. The pain… the pain was all over: a deep ache that seemed to go right through him.

Someone had been there. He remembered a voice; like an after-image from looking at something too bright. Fuzzy. Indistinct. The more he tried to focus, the more the memory blurred and faded.

John?

Panic started to rise in his throat. John?

Suddenly, there was a sensation of something on his shoulder, pressing down, firmly. A hand; someone else was there. He tried to speak, but couldn’t even manage that. The hand moved, slowly, in reassuring circles.

It felt large: a man’s hand, but somehow not John’s. Or his brother’s. Where were they?

Sherlock felt his head start to swim, as if he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. You’re panicking, he realized, even as he sunk back down into the dark.

 

************  
The fall took a little over a second, but it was enough to drive Mycroft several feet underwater. Despite his own advice, the shock of the cold forced his mouth part way open and he struggled to close it at the surface, even as choppy waves broke around his chin. He coughed and spluttered, all his swimming ability reduced to a stiff dog paddle as his muscles refused to fully cooperate.

He couldn’t see John. Another wave broke over his head and he realized he could die here. Easily. Just slipping under the next wave even as his heart began racing, pounding a furious tattoo against his ribs. Forcing himself to fight the cold, Mycroft managed to extend his arms and take a real stroke, setting out towards where he thought the shore must be. A few more strokes and he could just see it: a shred of beach at the base of the cliffs.

Focusing on counting his own strokes above anything else, Mycroft could feel himself grow increasingly clumsy. There was a roar and a wave broke over him from behind and he realized this could be it. Failure. Then, something scraped against his feet. 

Fighting his way back to the surface, Mycroft realised he could stand, but just barely. Struggling towards the shore he found himself almost knocked over by another wave, in the next moment, only waist deep. With a final push he staggered onto the shore, not even feeling any pain as he crashed to his knees on the beach.

His hands were white. Jesus. He’d made it. Before he managed to get to his feet a hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

John gripped Mycroft’s shoulder, trying to maintain his balance even as his whole body shuddered violently. “Mycroft?” When the other man looked up John was relieved to see he appeared, relatively speaking, unharmed, “We have to get up. Inside.” God, it hurt his jaw to speak and the words themselves didn’t come out right.

Mycroft appeared to understand as he nodded and clumsily got to his feet, staggering as he tried to right himself then leading the way towards the rocks. 

There was nowhere to go. John wrapped his arms tightly around himself, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. The cliff face rose up above them; the beach was tiny, ending in rocky cliffs at either side. They were dead, he thought. By their own hands rather than some sick step in Eurus’ game, but dead nonetheless.

Mycroft seemed to be examining cracks in the rocks, as if they held the answer to some mystery. John glanced back at the sea and the low stormclouds, wondering what would happen to England now that Eurus was essentially unleashed. Wondering what would happen to Sherlock, if he was even still alive.

“John!”

He turned to find Mycroft… holding open a small boulder?

The older man waved, impatiently, “Come on, quickly!”

The rock proved to be mounted on a metal hatch. They tumbled through into a small passageway, dimly lit by what appeared to be automatic emergency lights. Mycroft yanked the hatch shut behind them and secured it with a metal lever. The passageway only extended several feet: another, larger, metal door faced them.

John extended a hand to indicate the keypad embedded in its surface as he said, “P-please tell me you know the combination.”

Mycroft’s hands were shaking so violently it took him several long seconds to punch in the ten-digit code. With a dull thud and a hiss, the door opened inwards and a brighter light flickered on in the passage beyond. Cement walls slowly sloped upwards as they followed the passageway, both unsteady on their shaking legs. Finally, they reached another door that opened without being unlocked to reveal a small room. 

Once they were inside Mycroft shut the door behind them and seemed to visibly relax, even as he was almost overcome with violent shudders.

“We… we need to get warm.” John was dimly alarmed at how his words stuttered and slurred. They may be out of the ocean, but they weren’t safe yet. He spotted a locker next to the door and it took three tries before he managed to open it with his numb fingers. A large medical kit dominated the top shelf, but an even better sight was the survival kit on the shelf below. Clawing it open revealed thin thermal blankets, self-heating ration packs, heat packs, and water. It was their first piece of good luck since they’d arrived on the godforsaken island.

Dumping the kit out on the floor, John’s fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt as he said, “Take your clothes off.”

“What?” 

John cursed; if Mycroft was asking questions like that his cognitive faculties were compromised. “Get your wet clothes off. Quickly!”

Mycroft moved then, taking off his waistcoat and resorting to ripping the top buttons off his shirt and pulling the garment over his head when he couldn’t manage to undo them properly. The trousers were equally troublesome, but he was careful to fumble until eventually they came undone without ripping. Peeling off wet socks revealed that his toes were bluish-grey in color. In the back of his mind, Mycroft realized that he looked like a corpse. Glancing up, he found John similarly undressed, crouched over the equipment on the floor.

Snapping two heat packs to activate them, John gritted his teeth, knowing what he was about to say was unlikely to go down well. Tossing a blanket and two of the heat packs towards the other man, John said, “Take your pants off and wrap-up in the blanket. Put one heat pack by your groin, the other in an armpit. Fold the blanket under to make sure it’s not too hot.” Making a point of half-turning away, he set about following his own advice.

Under any other circumstance Mycroft was aware he’d be embarrassed, but in this case he didn’t even hesitate. Discarding his expensive pants in a sodden heap, Mycroft set about wrapping himself in the blanket, sealing in what little body heat he had along with the heat packs. Settling against the wall, he ducked his head to his knees and waited for the cold fog that was paralyzing his brain to lift.

Wrapping himself up and settling against the opposite wall, John focused on shifting to being a doctor. His own vitals were not terrible. After-drop was a concern, but they were doing everything right in carefully warming themselves up. Mycroft was still ashen-- freckles John had never known existed were scattered across his face. Few though they were, the extra years and more sedentary lifestyle was likely to make the other man less robust in the face of such a shock to the system.

Slowly, John felt himself warming to something approaching a normal rage. A bone-deep exhaustion grew even as his temperature rose, but as soon as he dared break the seal on his warm enclosure he set about examining the food packets. Water activated heat: fortunately, there was plenty of bottled water as well. Selecting two labelled as beef stew and setting them to heat, he looked up again to find that Mycroft was still sitting hunched over, respiration slow but even.

Awkwardly shuffling to bring bring his blanket and heat packs with him, John settled next to Mycroft and offered one of the stews.

It was enough to make Mycroft raise his head, and one eyebrow, when he saw what was being offered. “Dare I ask what is in this?”

John snorted, remembering some of the meals he’d choked down in Afghanistan. “You really don’t want to know. It claims to be beef, but I’m skeptical.”

A genuine, unguarded smile came over Mycroft face as he wriggled a hand out through a gap in the blanket to take the pouch. Digging into it with a disposable spoon, he couldn’t hold back a small groan at the sensation of warm slipping down his throat and into his core. Suddenly ravenous, he finished it quickly, followed with several small sips of water. The extra bit of warmth was enough to make him feel more himself, even as it came with the realization he was feeling very, very tired. Scraping the packet clean, he dropped it on the floor and tipped his head back against the wall, mapping Sherrinford in his mind. There had to be a way to create an advantage… he just had to find it. Even with the blankets between them, John was a comforting warmth against his side. He pushed himself deeper into his analysis until he wasn’t aware of the room at all.

************

Someone was talking. Someone familiar. Anxiety. The voice was anxious. A nick of pain in his arm and suddenly, light. Dim light, just a crescent, bordered by fuzzy… eyelashes. The voice continued; where was he? Where were the stars from before? He tried to look into the slit of light, but there was just beige and white. A wall? The voice: he _knew_ the voice, but couldn’t name it. The sound rose and fell, clearly someone speaking urgently and at length. Suddenly his little window of light blurred: a large figure, features indistinct except for a topping of grey hair. He didn’t know why this was reassuring. Abruptly, the image vanished. 

The stars came out again, slowly, then all at once. “Many are actually long-dead,” he whispered to himself, “exploded into supernovas.” 

_Come on, Yellowbeard!_

And his own voice, yet thin and small, “Come on, Redbeard!”

The scent of the grass was strong again. Spring grass-- he’d always loved the scent of it, but could never remember why. Some positive association, he assumed, long deleted. He breathed in the scent again, already forgetting the little window of light and the indistinct figure. 

The other voice, again, but somehow more distinct this time, “Yellowbeard!” A little boy, from the sound of it. Strange.

************

John slowly returned to awareness to find himself slumped over and the heat packs only lukewarm. A soft snore right by his ear made his eyes fly open. Mycroft. He was slumped against Mycroft Holmes. Before he could even think of how to extricate himself from the other man’s side, Mycroft’s breathing hitched, as if he could sense the change in his surroundings. 

With a brief tensing of muscles Mycroft came back to the present, allowing himself the traitorous enjoyment of the closeness of another body before the moment passed and he pulled away. Grimacing to remember that he was naked under the blanket, and discovering that his lower limbs had gone numb from the hard floor, Mycroft awkwardly shuffled to extend his legs into a more comfortable position. “Any idea how long?”

Oh. Equally embarrassed that he’d lapsed into sleep, John shrugged, ruefully, “Not sure. I suppose the heat packs are supposed to last for a while. A couple hours?”

Mycroft eyes closed as if was trying to gather strength to confront something supremely idiotic. It was a similar look to Sherlock when he was dealing with some of Lestrade’s earnest young recruits. As he did with the younger brother, John simply waited it out. 

Sure enough, Mycroft quickly moved past his disappointment. “Assume we’ve lost at least two hours. We may yet have the element of surprise: the tide was coming in earlier. If they didn’t quickly find the beach by sea, our footprints in the sand may have been been erased.” Quirking a small smile at John, he said, “In short, we may yet have the element of surprise.”

“Eurus doesn’t know about this?”

“Can’t be sure, but I doubt it. No one on the island knew about it-- my little insurance policy. It’s intended as the foothold in an thinkable situation.”

John looked around the room, dubiously, “And… this is a significant advantage?”

“More than you’d think.” Mycroft clambered to his feet with a grunt, holding the blanket closed around his torso as he surveyed their surroundings. “We could never have too much here-- the island is intended to be controlled by the governor. Along with the hypothermia kits and provisions, we have some clothing-- there was an expectation someone might have to swim in, short range radios, tranquilizers, and information.”

“What kind of information?”

A tight smile greeted the question, and Mycroft turned to consult a small computer terminal. The equipment looked slightly antiquated, but obediently came to life with a command entered into the system. Scrolling through the information, he listed aloud what he found, “Door logs, cell lock status, ingoing and outgoing communication logs, interior security camera status, facility schematics…” Mycroft trailed off as he consulted the latter. Eventually, he jabbed a finger at the screen, “Some good news at least: the other cells have remained locked so the inmates appear to be contained. Even better, I think we can take out the interior camera system.”

“How?”

“We’re going to have to go into the ventilation. Assuming we can make the squeeze; it was intended to provide a one-way access from this control room into the main facility. There’s a junction box for the camera system on the inside as well and it looks as if it’s a relay point for taking the feed up to the governor’s office. Cut it off there and Eurus will be blind.”

“And then we make our way to the control room, and then the governor’s office?”

It was a ridiculous, far-fetched plan, but Mycroft could only nod in affirmation. “That’s where she’ll be.”

John hadn’t known what he was expecting, but couldn’t avoid a twinge of disappointment that there wasn’t anything better to go on. As Mycroft continued to study the information, John studied Mycroft. While the brothers could still be largely inscrutable when they chose, over the years John had found himself becoming more able to read them-- particularly in rare, unguarded moments.

It was not encouraging to realize he’d never seen Mycroft look less confident.

The blanket held around Mycroft’s torso slipped lower, catching on his hips. Against the newly exposed pale skin, a small pock mark stood out on the taller man’s flank. John recognized it immediately: Mycroft had been shot. It was well healed; the scar itself faded. An old wound. Moreover, the larger scar marking the exit indicated that he’d been facing whoever had shot him, so many years ago.

Absently, the blanket was hitched up without any sign Mycroft had realized just how far it had fallen. Stepping aside, he indicated the screen, “Review the plans, John, until you’re confident in finding your way around. We’ll want to start moving soon.”

Putting aside questions about the past, John stepped up to do as he was told.


End file.
